


Human

by Tea221b



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tea221b/pseuds/Tea221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Banner has struggled to find 'normal' ever since the accident but has only met with failure. It's a good thing Tony Stark is quite comfortable living in the realm of abnormal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bruce

All of the casual touches were starting to get to Bruce. He was trying to accept them, but he still tended to jump a bit any time it happened. He had reason to be edgy; anytime he had been touched in recent past had been during capture attempts that usually resulted in him bleeding or unconscious. Before that, it had been his father’s...less than optimal methods of handling situations that taught Bruce to be aware of a raised hand or a gaze that lasted a few seconds too long.

He still had nightmares.

So it was understandable that Bruce tended toward avoidance and that the boundaries of his personal space were nearly city-wide. Unfortunately, Bruce had underestimated how much Stark disregarded rules, or _hints_ for that matter. Any time the geniuses were together, whether working on a project or stumbling about the kitchen for the nourishment they both tended to neglect, Stark’s person inevitably found contact upon Bruce’s. Stark’s timing – if he truly was doing this intentionally as Bruce was beginning to suspect – was terribly planned. To date, Bruce could count five major incidents that could have ended a lot worse and twelve minor. Bruce had nearly burned Stark’s stomach with the kettle when the man had attempted to grab a mug by going _through_ Bruce; almost fried him with a stripped livewire that the billionaire had no regard for as he eagerly removed Bruce’s glasses to replace them with new ones he’d bought him; dropped the man’s _arc reactor_ whilst hurriedly swapping the depleted core in Stark’s chest as said man lie _dying_ on the floor, clutching pitifully at Bruce’s arm; cut him with a mincing knife when the cocky genius insisted he could teach Bruce to do it better and proceeded to physically guide his hands; and bumped him into nearly tripping down a flight of stairs when he tried to fix the fold of Bruce’s shirt collar. This list didn’t include the numerous times Bruce had to bite back a transformation into the Other Guy due to unexpected contact – something which would likely forever be met with a fight or flight response. The minor mishaps typically only ended with one of them bruised. Bruce had the tendency to reflexively elbow Stark in the ribs any time the man threw a genial arm over his shoulders or to knock his own knee against the underside of the table when Stark surprised him by patting him on the back. Fortunately, Bruce was well within enough control to prevent the playboy from being seriously injured or, you know, _dying_ because he was too stubborn to see that the meek scientist wasn’t used to being touched.

Bruce was used to being on guard, as keeping the Hulk mollified was a 24/7 operation, but the added stress of keeping the unpredictable force that was Tony Stark on his radar was taxing. The threat of a transformation loomed closer the more exhausted and tense Bruce became and he was truly beginning to worry. He stretched out on the sofa, kicked off his shoes and stared vacantly at the ceiling. The mobile Stark had insisted on buying him slipped out of the pocket of his slacks, bounced on the taut leather sofa and proceeded to dive toward the hardwood floor. Bruce’s heart leapt into his throat and his hand darted out to grab it out of the air. The thought of damaging such a valuable gift left him shaking after he neatly placed it on the coffee table beside him. He took deep, measured breaths into his belly and exhaled through parted lips. He could feel the Hulk just beneath his skin, a mess of chaotic power pushing at its weakened restraints. Bruce eased back onto his side, let his eyes slip shut and continued his measured breaths until the jittery energy eventually dulled to a deep rumble.

“Dr Banner, shall I dim the lights for you?”

Bruce blinked up at the ceiling. It was a little shy of a month since Bruce had agreed to stay at Stark Tower, but the ever observant JARVIS still managed to continually surprise him. “Er...yes. Please. Thank you.”

The lights dimmed so drastically as to only hint at the outlines of objects in the spacious lounge room. The windows tinted to nearly opaque, choking out the glare of the midday sun. Bruce removed his new glasses, folding them and setting them beside his phone. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger before collapsing back onto the sofa. He had originally planned to only take a small break from the lab, but he wasn’t going to deny the sleep that was suddenly tugging at him. With so many resources and various forms of technology at his fingertips – all provided generously by Stark – Bruce hadn’t had much time for something as trivial as sleep. It had been years since Bruce had even touched a centrifuge; new, uncontaminated syringes; petri dishes that _weren’t_ the bottom halves of soda bottles; or a computer that was made within the last decade.

As tired as he was, Bruce found his mind eagerly drifting back to the lab. He sighed and set to thinking determinedly about anything else. After one of the government’s numerous attempts to capture him – he always managed to trip up at just the right time to bring unwanted attention to himself – Bruce had woken up naked in a snow bank just outside Vancouver. He had a broken arm; not the first bone he’d broken and surely not the last. It had to have occurred after his transformation back to his natural state. Perhaps he’d fallen on it wrong. It hadn’t hurt much, numbed by the surrounding cold and separated from him in his typical daze after waking from Hulk form. Two snowboarders had stumbled upon him and he had awkwardly made up a lie about being mugged for _all_ his skiing gear and left for dead. Appalled, the Canadians had quickly gotten him to their car, gave him a change of clothes as well as snacks and a ride to the nearest hospital. Bruce had been afraid of being asked questions, of being recognised as the green beast that must have terrorised a city hours prior; perhaps it was simply paranoia, but he could feel the eyes of his pursuers on his neck and he didn’t want to do anything as notable as checking in to a hospital. The two charitable boarders had been insistent, however, and he’d been thoroughly treated for concussion, hypothermia and had his arm set and fit in a cast. When they parted ways, they gave him all they had in their pockets – eighty-eight dollars even – and their mobile number in case he ran into trouble again. Their kindness never failed to bring a smile to Bruce’s lips. But the most memorable part of that day – the only part that wasn’t flashes of pain or hazily remembered screams of citizens or reckless military gunfire or guilt or confusion or awkward conversations – was the moment just after waking. Lying vulnerable in the snow, in a _quiet_ so deep that he couldn’t even hear his own breathing. Surrounded by white, staring up at a sky with only a vague tint of blue so as to appear white as well, numb and isolated. For a few moments that stretched on like eons, Robert Bruce Banner did not exist. If not for the dull ache of his arm, Bruce would have been convinced he had finally done it. He was dead, he could _stop._ He’d finally beaten the Hulk. He’d been so afraid that the Hulk, with his regenerative properties, would prolong this torture indefinitely. Bruce had heavily considered staying where he was, sleeping in the snow until he breathed his last, but as soon as that thought registered, he could feel _him_ pushing at the edges of his mind; the fight for self-preservation in the green monstrosity was greater than the need to heed his depleted energy. The threat of changing again so soon had Bruce struggling to his feet, dragging himself away from his brief sanctuary and into the arms of concerned strangers.

Bruce returned to that place now, that place of quiet white where time was only a theory and he didn’t exist. Bruce shut his eyes and slept.


	2. Tony

Tony was exhausted. Needed sleep. Tried. Didn’t work. Ran a few laps, _swam_ a few laps, drank until he couldn’t stand, recited the digits of pi to the 92nd position – 42, because why not – before giving it up as a bad job. The nightmares keep twisting into new shapes, and just when he thinks he’s got a hold on them, they become something new – something worse. Can’t turn his head off. It wasn’t this bad before. Wasn’t like this a couple weeks ago. What’s changed? Or is it just some delayed reaction? Finally got enough time to think, adrenaline’s gone, so, this... Like with the desert, the cave? The nightmares weren’t immediate then, either. No, they came later when Tony was settled at home again and the media had finally let him be. He’d wake up in a cold sweat, twisted in his sheets and screaming. JARVIS, for lack of coding would offer figures and equations as distraction until Tony could find sleep again or the first glare of morning sun spilled through his window.

But these nightmares aren’t the same. There’s more death in these, more failure. He should have been faster, smarter. How many died? The media always sticks to estimates. Estimates are safe territory. But Tony still remembers running and sweat in wounds and struggling to focus for a plan over the blaring readouts of ASSIST / TARGET / THREAT/ DANGER / CIVILIAN / TERMINATED in his helmet, the din of screaming and smoke in his lungs as buildings caught fire and collapsed and aliens slaughtered what they considered an inferior race. All those innocent lives. And the agents. Coulson.

If only he could turn it off, put himself in Sleep Mode and group everything into a file titled Do Not Open. If only he could _stop thinking,_ but it’s much easier when there’s gunfire to dodge and so much stimulus that it registers as white noise – that’s what the screams had eventually become, but now he remembers it all, and it serves as the audio track in all his nightmares, especially the ones that feature Fury. Fury, playing Tony like a puppet, and Tony knows he’s being played but can’t find a way around it. No way out. Is there ever? And the lack of control tears at him, makes him second-guess himself, double-back, breaks down his flimsy confident facade until he’s paranoid and _weak_.

And the _void_.

Tony shuddered. Maybe Bruce would understand. Should he talk to him? Is that something guys even do? Talk? Seems like that’d be crossing a line. Bruce isn’t his dad, after all. Barely even know the guy. Can’t go running to the good doctor because a couple nightmares have him avoiding his pillow. But he needs to talk to someone. Maybe Pepper? No, Pepper is mad at him again – he’s truly not sure why this time – and she’s not speaking to him. That hurts and it doesn’t. He’s too tired to let it hurt him at the moment, though he knows in the back of his mind that it isn’t right. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. He’d been awake now for... “JARVIS?”

“Not including the three-minute ‘blinks’ you’ve begun within the last hour, sir, it has been eighty-six hours and twenty-two minutes. Fifteen seconds. Sixteen. Seventeen.”

“Alright, ok.” Tony scrubbed at his impossibly dry eyes with a loose fist. “How do you know that was what I was going to ask? It may not have been what I was going to ask. It’s rude to assume, JARVIS.”

“I apologise, sir; what did you wish to ask?”

Tony pressed his lips tightly together and inhaled sharply through his nose. “Well, it would be dumb to lie to you, wouldn’t it?”

JARVIS didn’t reply and Tony paced the R&D floor again. The schematics for the new suit had stopped making sense about a day ago and he knew every change he made now was quite likely faulty. Errors would get him killed. On the other hand, looking at the blurry equations and sweeping lines made for a better sight than the strange wispy shadows just within his peripheral. Every time he focused on them, they would manifest into a lurking Chitauri, or a self-satisfied smirking Loki, or his dearly departed dad. Great, now he was slipping into alliteration. At any rate, the half-heart attacks at these barely-glimpsed hallucinations were getting old. That feeling you get when you forget which pocked you’ve put your wallet in and in that brief moment when you pat yourself down you dread having left it someplace. Or taking the stairs too quickly in the dark and what you figured was the landing was actually step number fourteen and your toes skim over the edge rather than planting firmly upon it and for an impossible moment you think the landing is gone, and you know that’s impossible but you’re convinced you’re going to just _fall_. _Forever_. Tony shuddered. The first hallucination had been his dad, standing out of the corner of his eye; he’d been reading a newspaper. Tony’s breath and heart had both stuttered at the sight and for a second he could almost fool himself into believing it was a hologram. But he’d broken down one of the prominent lasers necessary for holos for parts weeks ago, and why would he have programmed that anyway? So now, every time Tony catches him again, there’s no mistaking it. And lately the old man has been simply staring at him. It’s creepy. Though he isn’t sure that it’s meant to be, because the man’s eyes aren’t dull. There’s a spark in them, he’s got life in him. But no, that’s wrong. Wrong, wrong. Maybe that’s why it’s creepy.

Tony shakes his head, but that only makes him dizzy.

“—ist, the deprivation will cause damage, sir, and I have the data to prove it.”

“Whuh?” Tony clears his throat, glances discreetly for aliens and his dad – finds himself blessedly alone.

“Sir,” JARVIS says simply. He sounds concerned, but Tony didn’t code for anything like that. Didn’t need to. AI can be scary. Not forgot your wallet or missed the last step scary, but something worse if the job’s done wrong. Though JARVIS is designed to learn and adapt, emotions weren’t factored in the design. Was that a dumb move? What if JARVIS is too clinical, too detached. What if he truly needs more than just an analytical sounding board? Maybe he should look into it again. But that would mean taking JARVIS offline for a bit and—

“Sir,” JARVIS repeated, loud enough to be heard over the Louis Armstrong vinyl JARVIS _swore_ hadn’t been playing for the last three hours.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“You require sleep.”

 Tony let his chin drop to his chest. In the corner of his left eye, he could see his dad’s grey pressed trousers and black wingtips. “That Lucky Old Sun” kicked up at forty dB, just distant enough that he could convince himself he wasn’t hearing it – which he wasn’t. Right?

“I know.”

Tony glanced to one of the work tables, pushed aside some loose tracing paper to grab his glass of scotch. At this point it was more ice water than anything. He shrugged and drank it all in a long swallow before glancing to the stairs, then up at the ceiling lights. “JARVIS, locate Bruce.”


	3. Waking Up

Bruce woke with a nosebleed. He groaned and coughed a bit to clear his throat of what had drained there.

“Does that happen often?”

The doctor jumped in the dim and glanced over to find Stark sitting casually in the chair across the table, face lit up by the tablet he had balanced on one knee. A bluer light shone from the arc reactor through his shirt to throw conflicting shadows across his face. He didn’t look at Bruce, his eyes trained on the tablet as he swiped across its surface in swift movements. He was drinking scotch; Bruce only noticed after the ice shifted noisily in the glass his idle hand held.

“JARVIS, lights.” The overhead lighting increased to about twenty percent rather than blindingly bright; a considerate gesture on JARVIS’ part – if computers could be considerate. Without looking up he lifted a black handkerchief from the table and handed it to Bruce. “I only ask ‘cause the cleaners are prob’ly gonna be angry.”

Bruce blinked and looked past the handkerchief pressed to his nose to find blood staining the smooth material of the sofa. He blanched.

Voice gruff from disuse, Bruce began, “Stark, I’m sorry, I’ll—”

“It’s ‘Tony,’ I’ve told you,” Stark reminded patiently, attention still focused on the tablet. “’N don’t worry ‘bout it.” He took a long pull from his glass, eyes finally turning to the nervous doctor. “You even awake yet?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Bruce ran a hand through his hair, moving to sit properly on the sofa. He wasn’t sure how to answer Stark. He had honestly expected to wake up on a dirt floor, given the nosebleed – associating them now with rough climates and violent encounters with the natives. Trouble had an uncanny way of finding him.

After the appropriate amount of time to wait for a response – which for Stark was approximately a quarter of a second – he lifted the tablet for Bruce to see. “Hey, hey, does that look right to you?”

Bruce squinted at what he assumed were schematics of a new suit. Stark tapped the screen and the section was enlarged.

“Does what look right?” The doctor reached for his glasses, handkerchief still pressed to his nose.

“Any of it, all of it. Well, force and torque, see? I don’t want a break, but if I make this any thicker the joint won’t work. Any less, and Thor’s hammer might leave me with more than just bruises. But I know I can achieve more mobility, I know. Without any gaps, I mean, because that would be the obvious solution, wouldn’t it? I may be reckless but I’m not stupid – don’t comment on that. I’ve been running simulations and my arm only breaks within a forty-two percent—”

“Thor’s hammer bruises you?”

Stark worked his jaw after the interruption, eyes slightly glazed from drink. “You’re not even listening.”

“I’m not an engineer, Stark—”

“Tony.”

“—so I can’t help.”

Stark huffed and let the tablet rest on his knee again. “Not even an opinion, then?”

“Do whatever doesn’t get you killed or put in a cast.”

“Those are boring words to live by, doc.”

Bruce pulled the cloth from his nose and checked again; he’d finally stopped bleeding. He glanced to the sofa. “Have you got any paper towels?”

“Nah,” his attention drifted to the window for a moment, “Stark Tower’s green. Why?” Stark eyed him for a beat. “The blood? I told you, don’t worry ‘bout that.”

Bruce sighed. He glanced sidelong at Stark’s drink. The genius had long since stopped asking Bruce if he’d like one – it wasn’t that Bruce didn’t like drinking, but he’d learned the hard way that alcohol and the Hulk didn’t mix. The doctor had tried explaining this the first few times Stark offered but it wasn’t until Bruce finally resorted to silence as answer that Tony stopped asking. Silence often got the message across; though it was still surprising each time it worked. Stark characteristically refused to allow silence to carry on for long periods, but Bruce hadn’t yet determined the reason. Until he puzzled out why, he supposed he’d have to deal with the man’s outbursts and blaring music at odd hours.

“Have you ever been bit by a snake?”

Bruce blinked. “Er, yeah...”

“Really? Wh’sit like?”

Stark had only been pissed enough to slur his words once since Bruce had begun his stay at the Tower, and that had been after quite a few glasses. The billionaire could definitely hold his liquor, but this obviously wasn’t his first drink of the night.

“S’like a spider bite, but more...fangy?” Stark punctuated this question by making a biting motion with two crooked fingers of his free hand in the air.

Bruce sighed and shook his head.

“Y’know who knows lots about spider bites?” Stark grinned.

“Parker?” Bruce guessed unenthusiastically.

Stark barked out a laugh. “Yeah! That kid. He’s a good kid.”

Bruce smiled as Stark nodded to himself while taking a drink, which resulted in less drinking and more teeth clicking against the glass. “How long have I been asleep? Or, rather, how long have you been watching me sleep – which is creepy, for future reference.”

“Dunno how long you’ve been out. Been sittin’ here twenty-two minutes. Woulda been twenty-seven but I had to go find a handkerchief when you started bleeding. And then I could only find white ones – prob’ly Pepper’s idea – and one red one but then I found that one,” he gestured lazily. “I was gonna wake you up but you did that on your own and I was busy with the forty-two percent. I tried to fix it, but I don’t think I did it right. I’ve broken bones before – don’t like it, takes too long.” He set the tablet down with a frown and warily eyed the adjacent sofa for a long beat.

“What does? The healing?” Bruce asked, glancing over to the empty sofa with a quizzical gaze – nothing was there.

“Yeah...” Tony slowly dragged his attention back to Bruce but his eyes darted back to the empty seat twice before focusing resolutely on his drink. “Bet there’s a way to speed it up, y’know? Gotta be something...”

“You could always just avoid it,” Bruce muttered as he dizzily stood.

“Being a super hero of all mankind and beyond kinda doesn’t allow—” Stark shot up to steady Bruce as he tilted toward the coffee table but the billionaire didn’t succeed so much as sway drunkenly into him and Bruce’s predictable flinch backwards brought the man to knock his knees audibly into the table and spill his drink.

“ _Ow_ ,” Stark stated emphatically, glaring at the table.

“That’ll be another bruise, then,” Bruce commented tiredly, lifting the tablet from the spreading puddle of scotch. “Sorry. People are going to start thinking I abuse you.”

“We c’n blame the Other Guy, though I argue he’s really jus’ a Gentle Giant.”

“You’re insane, Stark.” Bruce smirked, and headed toward the full kitchen to rinse out the handkerchief and move the pricey tech to a safer spot.

“Tony,” he mumbled reflexively before calling out proudly, “I’ve been called worse.” He followed after Bruce for apparent lack of anything better to do. “But there’s definitely better ways to get bruises on your knees.” He wagged his eyebrows suggestively before breaking into another sloppy grin.

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Bruce threw over his shoulder drily. Since the incident, Bruce hadn’t been intimate with anyone for fear of the Other Guy getting loose. The hypothetical was enough to keep him celibate, feeling ill at the thought of injuring someone. It wasn’t as though he’d been with someone on a nightly basis beforehand, but to be cut off indefinitely was frustrating. He grabbed a tea towel and ran it under the faucet before sidestepping Stark toward the sofa again.

“What’re you doin’? Hey,” Tony called after him, staggering behind.

Bruce sighed. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“It’s unness—unnessair—You don’t need to.”

“It is necessary, Stark,” he replied, scrubbing lightly at the stain, smirking triumphantly as it began to transfer to the towel.

“Why pay cleaners if they don’t have unclean things to clean? And, Bruce, hey, it’s ‘Tony,’ man. Really. You could say it before.” Tony muttered into his near-empty glass, “Why can’t you now? What’s changed? Everythin’s changing, keeps chang— Is it because you’re here now?” Tony sat down on the cushion next to the one Bruce was cleaning to be directly in the man’s field of vision. “’Cause, hey, y’know, what’s mine is yours.”

Bruce’s eyes flitted to Tony’s glazed ones to find confusion there but also staggering sincerity.

“Nothing has to change,” Tony said in a near whisper. His eyes were drawn away again to the empty sofa and Bruce furrowed his brows.

“What are you looking at?” He paused in scrubbing and watched Tony flex his jaw.

Tony frowned, gaze locked in the middle distance. “’S nothing.”

Bruce leaned closer to inspect Tony, but the other man seemed oblivious. The philanthropist had dark circles under his eyes and the trademark cut of his beard was getting lost in untrimmed stubble. His hair had at least a day’s worth of build-up. Bruce blinked. When was the last time he’d seen the man? “Stark.”

Tony stared fixatedly at the adjacent sofa, eyes unsteadily tracking something Bruce couldn’t see.

“Tony,” Bruce said with a near growl.

Tony gave a small start, blinked and looked to Bruce. He gave the doctor a brilliant smile, eyes bright and warm, and for a moment they seemed clear of the veil of alcohol. He clapped Bruce on the shoulder, ignoring the habitual flinch, “Hey, yeah. See? Nothing has to change.” His gaze drifted a moment back to whatever had his attention and he murmured, “Nothing has to change.”

“When was the last time you slept?” Tony seemed unwilling or unable to hear him. “Or ate, for that matter?” Tony didn’t acknowledge him so Bruce sighed before picking up the towel again. “JARVIS?”

“Sir.”

“The last time Tony slept?”

“Eighty-seven hours, forty-three minutes have passed since Tony last slept for a duration of four hours and nine minutes. Before that he had been awake for thirty-seven hours and thirty-seven minutes exactly.”

The breath was choked out of Bruce as his chest constricted. He looked up sharply to Tony again to find the man still staring at nothing. The numbers ran circles in Bruce’s mind. When had he truly last seen Tony? Aside from passing each other in the occasional hallway, he hadn’t talked to the genius for days. The lab and his work had consumed him, and it seemed as though something equally demanding had captured Tony’s time and focus.

“When was the last time he ate,” Bruce whispered.

“Sixteen hours, nine minutes ago, Tony had a bowl of cereal of which he ate primarily the marshmallows.”

“Of course he did,” Bruce muttered. He looked sadly to the unresponsive man. “How did this happen?”

“You have been occupied in Labs Two and Four for the last five days,” Bruce hadn’t expected JARVIS to answer and the response made him snap his head up to the ceiling. “You have left level H only to sleep and eat, sir. You have slept for a total of thirty-two hours. Tony has not retired from the R&D levels for anything other than to refresh his glass and check on you twice. Your interaction of late has been minimal and it is not uncommon for Tony to forgo basic necessities while working.”

“He checked on me?” Bruce didn’t even recall seeing him.

“Tony did not enter the Lab either time.”

Bruce scrubbed at his face in irritation. Beneath his skin he could feel the Hulk shifting restlessly, and Bruce determinedly sought a distraction. “Where is Pepper?”

“Miss Potts was called away last Thursday to a conference in Berlin. Tony was originally meant to attend and she went in his stead. She is due to return in three days. Tony has her itinerary on his tablet.”

Dreading the answer, but too much of a masochist not to ask, Bruce wondered, “Why didn’t he go?”

“Tony wanted to stay at the Tower to keep you company.”

The guilt Bruce had been feeling condensed into a lump of lead in his gut. The Hulk roared within his cage and Bruce screwed his eyes shut. The last thing Tony needed right now was to deal with the Hulk. A brief flash of Tony lying broken and bleeding skittered across his mind at the thought of the Hulk breaking free and the green beast immediately settled into a subdued rumble, still angry but hesitant at the thought of hurting Tony. Bruce faltered for a moment, finding himself pushing fiercely at a suddenly passive force. He reigned himself back and tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. How could he have been so selfish? In an effort to forget everything, to ignore the constant restoration of the city as people tried to reconstruct damaged buildings and their broken lives, he had hidden away in work that was familiar. He’d tried to keep his mind occupied, but he hadn’t meant to _ignore_ Tony. He should have seen all of this earlier, or at least known that Pepper had been _absent_ for a _week_. Tony was definitely a social creature, and while he might not like crowds as much as he pretended, Bruce knew the man liked to be the centre of attention, or at least _noticed_ , damn it, and Bruce had essentially left the man in isolation through pure obliviousness on his part.

He reached for Tony’s glass but found that the man was nearly clutching it. “Hey,” he coaxed softly, “Give me that; you need something better, now.” The man’s eyes were unfocused and still and Bruce was afraid the man had fallen asleep like that. “Tony,” he shook him lightly and the man startled with a snuffle and a few sharp blinks. “Tony, give me the glass,” Bruce murmured, slipping it from the man’s locked hand while surreptitiously checking the man’s pulse – erratic and fast. He frowned.

“M’head hurts,” Tony admitted in a quiet voice.

“It’s alright,” Bruce replied in a soft tenor, “we’re going to fix that.” He released the other man’s wrist and stood determinedly. He’d get some food into him, then get him to bed. A small shiver ran through him as Tony once more looked to the empty sofa. He was obviously seeing _something._ Bruce wasn’t sure what it was Tony was hallucinating, but it made the billionaire’s eyes hollow.

Bruce could fix this. He _would_ fix this.


End file.
